


Under My Skin

by LysanderandHermia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Blood and Injury, But also, Canon-Typical Violence, Compulsion, M/M, Slice of Life, Softness, kind of?, only there's just 3+1, taking care of each other, these tags are a mess and I'm not sorry, washcloths feature prominently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29485851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LysanderandHermia/pseuds/LysanderandHermia
Summary: There are three things Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty have in common (four if you count that they form a famous criminal duo) and one thing that sharply contrasts - Jim doesn't get his hands dirty.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> For the cool being that guessed closest to the total number of dog's I'd seen in January this year. I hope you like it!
> 
> Tip your writers with kudos and comments, and I hope you enjoy!

Moriarty and Moran. Sebastian liked to think of them as one of those famous duos – like Bonnie and Clyde, or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Them against the world. They both had the criminal part down pat, at least, but it deviated from there – mostly in how far reaching their empire was and unhindered by the law they were.

Grimacing, Sebastian stares at his reflection in the mirror, and continues to try and clean himself up, twisting uncomfortably to try and get the washcloth around the side of his ribs, where dried blood is flaking off and slick and sticky in another place. He’s pretty sure Clyde would have helped Bonnie clean up, and for that reason, he envies the criminal couple for a moment. He and Jim have a lot in common – it’s a lot of what makes them run so smoothly together, but the one thing Jim refuses to do is get his hands dirty.

Sebastian’s been with Jim for over a decade now, and worked with him for longer. Jim doesn’t _do_ dirty work; never has. Need someone tortured for information? He’ll watch, but he never picks up the tire iron himself, and always stands outside of the splash zone. Murder and other assorted crime? Jim loves nothing more than to organize all the pieces and watch things unfold in perfect synchronicity. Actually doing the legwork and getting dirty? _No, Sebastian, that’s what you’re here for, babe._

He rinses the washcloth and watches the water run pink, fingers running over the Turkish linen that will either need to be bleached or thrown out, shaking his head and sighing softly. Jim’s voice echoes in his mind from the first time he’d cut himself up on a job and was trying to stop the blood flow with paper towels.

_“What are you doing, you idiot?” Jim drawls, wandering into the kitchen to flip the kettle on for more tea and watching with bright, interested eyes as Sebastian presses more thin sheets to his arm._

_“Trying to keep from bleeding everywhere, what does it fucking look like?” Sebastian snaps back, glaring at Jim and biting back a wince as he presses on his wound._

_Jim only rolls his eyes and glides back out of the kitchen, but returns in less than a minute, and dumps an armful of expensive washcloths on the island countertop, picking one up and turning it over in his hands, ignoring Sebastian’s argument that they’re ‘too nice’. “I promised myself I’d only own nice things when I’d made it to the top,” he holds the cloth out with two fingers to Sebastian, dropping it into the hand he reluctantly holds out, “And you’re the nicest thing I have by far, so do me a favor and clean yourself up with proper things. I know for a fact you were raised in a manor house and not a barn.”_

Working with James Moriarty for any length of time meant you inevitably had to learn how to read between the lines of his words, and it was Sebastian’s first concrete memory of Jim disclosing anything that remotely resembled something personal about himself. _I promised myself I’d only own nice things when I’d made it to the top._ Sebastian had assumed Jim had always had everything he needed, just as he assumed Jim had never been a child, but a smaller adult. Jim didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d ever been a kid, with scuffed knees and going to primary school, though Sebastian knew he had to have been.

Sebastian and Jim alike didn’t have to work for money at this point in their lives, but they’d also both struggled to make ends meet in their pasts; Sebastian had gambled away his inheritance after his discharge from the army, but he wouldn’t have guessed Jim had ever been in a position to want for anything. He walked and talked like he was from money, and yet, as time passed and Jim slowly elaborated through more dropped phrases and insinuations, Sebastian realized that Jim had grown up very poor.

_And now look at you_ , Sebastian thinks with a grim smile, squeezing out the washcloth and reapplying it to his side, _Throwing out hundred quid washcloths because I get blood on them and refusing to buy cheaper ones_.

“Oh, ouch, ‘Bas, I didn’t even plan for that to happen this time,” A voice comes from the bathroom door, and Sebastian looks up in the mirror to meet Jim’s gaze, rolling his eyes in reply. Jim drifts in a little closer and perches on the antique tub, out of the way and where he can see. Sebastian can almost watch him making the mental calculations to work backwards and figure out what he got stabbed with and how. Hell, he’d probably even provide the proof on the bathroom mirror for the angle of the curve and the function of the slice perforating his ribs.

“This implies that you generally plan for me to get hurt on supposed smooth sailing jobs,” Sebastian replies, voice more even than he feels. It hurts, _a lot_. He’s going to need fucking stitches. He hates stitches. Jim only smiles delicately at him from his perch and Sebastian rolls his eyes again, but good naturedly this time.

The only person he’s ever met that has as wide of a violence streak as himself has been Jim. It’s another reason they fit so well together – Sebastian likes getting his fists bruised slamming them into other people’s soft points, and Jim relishes watching the looks on their faces and what it does to them psychologically. While Jim doesn’t sink knives into his skin, he _does_ always like it when Sebastian comes home bloodied up (granted, as long as he doesn’t come too close).

Sebastian loves being Jim’s hands in the field, and in personal, one-on-one sessions with clients, being the muscle to back up Jim’s extensive intelligence and threats. After such encounters they usually make it halfway to third base (excuse the American euphemism) before reaching their flat, and _that_ is sometimes almost as violent, but with less bloodshed. Jim knows lots of painful pressure points and has a _thing_ for squeezing Sebastian’s windpipe and watching his movements grow sloppy and loose; Sebastian knows Jim loves his hair gripped tightly and a cock forced to the back of his throat and getting thrown onto the bed.

Jerking his attention away from that line of thought, Sebastian tosses the hand towel into the sink and pulls a fresh one from the wicker basket on the shelf, running it under the tap and carefully wiping blood off his side, eyes on his task in the mirror. “You think the doctor can get over here this late?” He asks distractedly, hissing when part of the towel sticks to his side.

“Baby, I _own_ these people. Of course she can get over here this late.” Jim’s voice lilts to him, and Sebastian glances around, surprised when Jim’s voice comes from much closer to his shoulder than he’d expected. Indeed, Jim’s moved closer, frowning at the gash on Seb’s side. “However,” Jim murmurs softly, “You know I prefer if _other people_ don’t come here.” He turns away and moves to the other side of the bathroom, adjusting the larger bath towels in their neat stack and rummaging in the cupboard overhead. Sebastian stops paying attention to him as he wanders away and sets about doing the same run through again – rinse, dab at the wound, wince, repeat – though his skin feels raw at this point. He’s at least got the worst of it off, but the cut keeps bleeding sluggishly, especially when he has to twist to reach his side.

Jim never likes it when they have to have people walk into his flat. He’s a paranoid bugger, but Sebastian can’t really blame him. He hates it too, having someone else in his space is… far too personal for his preferences. They both never sleep well for the next week when it happens, and Jim always does a full reboot of their security and has the keypads wiped and refitted. Still, Jim’s comment means he’s going to have to slap gauze on it and make his way to a different safe house to meet the doctor, and he really just wants a drink and to fall asleep on the couch.

A cold hand on his shoulder makes Sebastian jump, and Jim laughs as he sets down a suture kit on the sink edge, nudging Sebastian to the side. “You’ve come so far, Sebastian,” he says mildly as he starts lathering up his hands with soap, “There was a time that a move like that would have got me decked in the face.” He gives Sebastian an amused look, and Sebastian can only lift a shoulder in a shrug. Jim’s right – he’s gotten used to Jim over the years, and he no longer startles as badly when the man sneaks up on him. “Now,” Jim continues, drying his hands and flapping his arms at Sebastian, “Sit down.”

Sebastian sinks down to sit on the closed lid of the toilet, frowning as he watches Jim deftly thread a curved needle. “Jim…” He starts, and Jim raises his eyebrows, still digging through the medical kit, “I can’t reach to do that, I’m going to have to go see someone,” Sebastian frowns as Jim ignores him and continues pulling out supplies and setting them in a neat row on the sink edge, then getting a fresh hand towel and running it under warm water, “Can you just hand me some of the gauze?” He tries after a few moments, and Jim finally gives him a withering look.

“Sebastian, when have I _ever_ threaded one of these things for you?” He says, voice flat, holding up the needle, and Sebastian blinks at him, “That’s right, you oaf, never, so do the world a favor and shut up. I can handle this.” He moves to Sebastian’s side and holds his hand out for the towel Sebastian is pressing to his side.

He can’t manage to stop staring in shock at Jim, but he snaps out of it when Jim rather painfully flicks him on the forehead, “Come in, come in, earth to Colonel Moraaaaan… there he is,” Jim says, dancing backwards as Sebastian throws a sloppy punch at him. He takes the towel from Sebastian and swipes the clean one in his possession over the entire area with two rough but effective movements, smirking as Sebastian curses, tensing in pain.

When Jim’s knees hit the bathroom tiles, Sebastian actually blanches, “Jim, you’re not serious.”

Jim looks up, where he’s got the towel pressed to Seb’s side and is frowning at the cut, suture and needle in hand, “Of course I am,” Jim snaps, sounding mildly offended, “Now get your stupid arm out of the way and let me concentrate.” He doesn’t wait for Sebastian to comply and navigates Sebastian’s arm over his own head, propping it there, and sets to work immediately, not bothering to warn Sebastian, who tenses again and swears. “Shut _up_ , you big baby, these are pinpricks compared to the literal knife that went through your side,” he says, making a knot and starting down the side of the cut, keeping the towel in place to stem the bleeding as he works.

Sebastian wouldn’t speak if he wanted to anyways, he feels dizzy enough and by the time Jim finishes almost half an hour later, his side is burning. Jim is silent the whole time, and when he’s done, he immediately moves to the sink and begins washing his hands. Sebastian takes a few minutes to breathe, and finally takes a look at the job Jim’s done when his face no longer feels clammy, careful not to pull the stitches he’s just received. There’s a very neat row of them, and Jim placed possibly more than he needed to – though if that was out of wanting to give Sebastian a thinner, less noticeable scar or because he’s a bastard and enjoys jabbing him over and over, is hard to say.

For never having seen Jim do any sort of work like this, it’s not bad, and it will certainly do nicely. He presses the cloth over it again and reaches over to grab the disinfectant and gauze, applying a thick pad and taping it down. By the time he’s cleaned up the bits of paper and thrown the salvageable towels in the hamper, Sebastian’s ears finally clue in on something that’s been bothering him.

The water’s still running in the sink. Jim is standing there, staring down at his hands, scrubbing them thoroughly, and Sebastian realizes he hasn’t stopped scrubbing them with soap and water since he finished. Carefully, he reaches out and presses a hand to Jim’s shoulder. Jim’s only response is to let out a soft hum of acknowledgement, so Sebastian lets his arm slide down the man’s arm to the tap, and slowly turns it off.

Jim stands there for a moment, then flexes his fingers. They’re raw and pink from how much he’d scrubbed, and Sebastian didn’t think he’d gotten that messy to begin with. He says nothing, just hands Jim a clean and fresh hand towel and finishes packing away the kit Jim had retrieved. When he turns around again, Jim’s disappeared further into their flat. Sebastian washes his hands and finds a clean shirt, then heads for their wet bar.

The mastermind is already there, halfway through a gin and tonic. Sebastian pours himself a drink and collapses onto the couch, relaxing back into the cushions, waiting for Jim to join him. Eventually, Jim moves from staring out the window at the London skyline to sitting next to him. Sebastian hooks his arm around Jim’s shoulders and runs his fingers through the man’s hair and is rewarded with a sigh.

“Thought I could handle it, this time,” he murmurs, Irish brogue slipping out more than usual. “Still. At least I managed a straight line,” Jim turns to glance at Sebastian’s face, searching it for a moment, before smiling and pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder and returning to his drink.

Sebastian smiles – it’s the most improbable thing in his opinion, that they have in common, unspoken though Jim’s sentiments are. He shows them like this, by doing the one thing he hates when Sebastian needs him, and in pressing quiet kisses in random places. He doesn’t say anything about Jim’s out of character attempt (and success) in stitching him back together, just files it away with the other little bits of information he has of the man, and mouths the words back at him into his hairline. _Love you_.


End file.
